Thursday, December 31, 2009

TMI Thursday: Please, Just Hair Me Out

It's TMI Thursday! Go see more stories over here:


Do you remember that guy in high school that was two years older than you and totally out of your league? Remember how you drove by his house three times a day, wrote down what he was wearing (and critiqued it), and were positive that one day he would saunter up to you in the hall and admit his un-dying love for you?

And then remember how he graduated and moved away and you never heard from him again until you were at a bar in college four years later and you were all OH MY GOD, TRACY, THERE HE IS! WHAT SHOULD I DO?

And remember how Tracy was all, "HOLY CRAP that is him! Wow, he's still so...well, he really doesn't look hot. And he looks totally wasted. And kind of fat."

And remember how you were all, "Well I'm totally wasted, too, and he's NOT fat. He's more muscular...or...well, maybe his face is swollen from a root canal and both sides this afternoon and that's why he's downing shots. Go buy me a drink, I'm going to go talk to him."

Okay, so then remember how you took a shot of something fruity and tart and OH SO AMAZING and walked up to the boy you fondly remember batting eyelashes at in the hallway while he passed you and probably thought your pants were the most hideous thing on God's green earth?

Remember that?


Just me, then?

Okay, well it happened to me. And things should have gone swimmingly after that.

Should have.

I should have looked into his (slightly full) face and heard bells and sparklers a la Bobby Brady in the Kissing Episode. But I didn't. But it was okay, cuz I was drunk.

(And because if I keep telling this story in the "remember when" tense, you may never come back and visit this blog, I will now revert back to normal story telling mode.)

Here's what happened after I walked up to The Boy:

So Tracy gives me a shot and I approach The Boy's table. He's sitting with -shocker- the same two friends he hung out with in high school. Pointy Nose Friend still has a pointy nose, although it should be noted that it has less acne on it. Muscle Monkey Friend is still muscle-y, but is nearly unrecognisable due to the 80 pound Gamma Givsa Hummer sorority hussy trying to chew his face off with her tongue.

Ignoring the friends, I lightly tap The Boy on his shoulder and say something eloquent like, "Um, hey. Are you The Boy from Loserville Highschool, class of 2007?"

To which he replies, "Um. Yeah. Hi." After which he does a fully obvious super hero laser stare right at my gazungas. And smiles.

"Oh!" I shout nervously. "I'm Kim, but I was two grades below you. I don't know if you remember me..."

It's a bit fuzzy after that, and the details don't matter. The Boy remembers me (or at least does an Oscar-worthy performance of convincing my ridiculous ass that he does) and we drink until last call.

And then comes THE MOMENT.

The Boy insists that I come with him to his apartment because he's truly concerned about my alcohol toxicology levels. Never mind that The Boy has had a minimum of seven drinks more than I.


Minutes later we arrive at his humble abode. We enter the living area which is stuffed to the gills with 700 pieces of black leather Dude-My-Apartment-Is-Such-a-Chick-Magnet furniture, and several tye dye blankets tacked on the wall.

It's creepy. But I don't care, because we make out. A lot.

As we smooch, my mind wanders and I contemplate whether The Boy and I will have a swing set or a slide in our back yard. Will we send our children to our high school or a prestige private school? Will we be in the 25% or 28% tax bracket, because I probably won't work after the first-

"So, is that okay?" The Boy asks.


"Um, sure." I reply.

(Because really, what question other than "Don't you adore my tye dye blanket wall coverings?" could he possibly ask that I would say no to?)

"Great." The Boy stands and motions down a hallway. "I'll be there in just a second," he says. "I'm going to get a drink from the fridge."

Ahhh...I am to go to his bedroom. Do I want to do that?


So I do. Seconds later The Boy appears in the bedroom doorway, shirt off and (somewhat) saucy. I notice the glass of water in his hand and immediately realize that I need to pee.

"Hey, Boy. Sorry, I need to use the restroom really quickly." I hop off the bed and head toward a door cracked open a few inches across the room.

"This is your bathroom, right?" I fumble for the light switch and look back at him with my sexiest bedroom eyes. "I'll be right back!"

As I close the door behind me, I faintly hear him asking me to use the bathroom down the hall, but there's no time for that. I have to go.

So I do.

I won't bore you with details.

And happened. My perfect night was blown into tiny little bits. As I stood to wash my hands, I noticed something in the sink.

No, wait. A lot of somethings. Furry somethings.

Is that black pillow stuffing?

My eyes flash over to the outlet on the wall. A plugged in razor lay sadly on the sink counter, obviously exhausted from a long day's work.

Oh. My. God.

In the sink bowl lay hundreds, nay, thousands of trimmed little black curly hairs. It looks like Shaft's head has been ritualistically shorn and the remaining contents placed in The Boy's sink.


WHERE DID ALL THIS HAIR COME FROM? The Boy has a decent amount of hair upon his head so it isn't like he shaved his head this morning. And there's no way THAT much hair could come from his...region. So where is it from? Two possibilities immediately enter my mind, both of which are beyond awful.


A) The Boy is really hairy and had chosen today to rid his body of all follicles, both foreign and domestic, and has forgotten to remove of the evidence in the event a GIRL COMES BACK TO HIS APARTMENT.


B) The Boy is of the normal hairy variety and has been (gulp) shaving off his normal amounts of hair over a VERY LONG PERIOD OF TIME and failing to dispose of the clippings.

T. M. I.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately left the apartment screaming "EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK!" all the way out, but please remember that I have allowed The Boy to drive, and I have no way to get home.

So I stay.

And try not to vomit.

The next morning The Boy drives me back to my apartment and promises to call me. Which he does multiple times. And I take great pleasure in ignoring every single call, much in the way he completely ignored me in high school.

It all comes full circle, people.

On another note, if there are any single boys reading, please remember this. No matter how hot you look when you leave your house, if you return to the house with any normal female, she will not be impressed with:

* Debbie Does Dallas furniture replications in your living room

* Dirty underwear strewn across the floor

* Captain Crunch crummies in your bed


You're welcome.

Monday, December 28, 2009

times, they're not a changin'

I've managed to surive 28 new years in my life, and they usally come along with the same new (or old, depending on how you look at it) promises.

Start running three miles a day.

Eat more fruit.

Drink less Dr. Pepper.

Recently though, I've come to terms with the fact that, in the new year, I will be more likely to:

Sleep in as long as it would take to run three miles.

Eat more Cheetos.

Double my Dr. Pepper intake.

But whatevs, I can accept that. I no longer feel the need to make gigantically huge proclamations about better health and living, when, in reality, I'm quite content with the way I live my life.

(This doesn't mean I'm completely resistant to change. After all, this year I took a huge gamble and changed jobs.)

(I didn't do it willingly, but still, I did it. Yay me!)

So, this year, rather than focusing on the thing I'm bound and determined to change, I'm going to make a list of things that will remain constant for me so long as I have air in my lungs.

And who knows, you just might see yourself in some of them.

Without further ado...until I die I will:

1) Need to count on my fingers the number of hours of sleep I received the night before (a la "7,, 9 hours is a new record!")

2) Require a calculator to figure out how old a celebrity/stranger/relative was when they died. Those 1937-2009 calculations are just way over my brain capacity.

3) Suck at math. Clearly.

4) Forget the name of the person I met three seconds after meeting them.

5) Run around at least three times a day screaming, "Where did I put my effing sunglasses!??" only to find them wrapped securely on my head.

6) Mentally whisper "please forgive me" to Jesus every time I drop an F-bomb.

7) Bark at my children that PATIENCE IS A I mentally condemn the bank teller to hell for taking so long with my deposit slip receipt.

8) Love my Hubs, children and cats more than life itself.

9) Require my mother's presence in order to feel better when I'm sick.

10) Wonder if Hubs' and my house will ever feel like "home" as much as the house I grew up in as a child.

11) Be very generous with forgiving, but very stingy with forgetting.

12) Wonder if there's a kick-ass novel inside of me somewhere, dying to get out.

13) Love hearing Hubs say "Bye, babe" at the end of every telephone call.

14) Keep adding to the number of awkward stories I still have in my memory banks.

15) Secretly know that I am the next American Idol/Top Model/Shear Genius/Real Housewife/Iron Chef - and that my limitless talents are simply reserved for my families entertainment.

16) Size up every female I pass in the mall and think, "I could never wear pull off acid wash black denim" or "Damn, I wish my arms were that skinny" or "Who let her out of the house in THAT?"

17) Always have a pile of clothes on the floor- unless company comes over. In case of which they will be shoved into a closet.

18) Never unpack on the same day I return home from a trip.

19) Continually try and be someone else, only to discover I'm always going to be me.

20) Question everything.

It's possible a miracle will occur and I'll post more than once this week, but in case I don't, have a great holiday and new year. And, dear bloggies, if your 2009 was anything like mine, keep in mind the phrase that always keeps me going: This Too Shall Pass.

Monday, December 7, 2009

a cut above

I'm not what you would call a follower.

(Except for blogging, in which case I follow everyone. Obsessively. Yes, that's right. I'm following you. And you. And you didn't even know it.)

I usually pride myself on going against the grain of the norm. When the skinny jean heroin model trend started up, I refused to participate and purchased extra large knit drawstring pants and a cheeseburger.

When Seventeen magazine told me to be proud of my God-given hair color and leave it alone, I swiftly purchased a $4.00 box of hair dye entitled something like "Eggplant Parmesan" and ended up looking like this:

You get the idea.

(Yes, I had a mustache in this picture. I was only 17 and had not yet become privy to the uses of Nair, Nads, wax, or, clearly, a mirror. Shut it.)

In keeping with my trend of personal trail blazing, I did it again this weekend. In a world full of Grow-Your-Hair-To-Your-Ass or Buy-$5000-Extensions-To-Make-Your-Hair-Look-Like-It's-Grown-To-Your-Ass messages, I opted to chop my hair off on Saturday.

This was not a well thought out decision.

First of all, I live in Kansas. It is WINTER TIME. So far this year, our fine state has managed to avoid an all-out snow fest.

So far.

Apparently Mother Nature, in all her infinite wisdom, took it upon herself to patiently wait until I removed approximately 5" of hair insulation around my neck to dump a snow storm on the city. Therefore, on Wednesday, if you happen to see a crazed lunatic with an out-of-season bob haircut pumping her fist at the sky and screaming "WHY dammit? WHY?", it's me...

Secondly, I recently bought a brand new Chi flat iron.

It wasn't cheap.

Now I have an outrageously expensive piece of hair styling equipment, perfect for my really long hair...when a $9.00 hot pink Conair piece of shit will do just fine.

I am so brilliant.

On a side note have having nothing to do with anything, I have approximately 15 ridiculous silver gray hairs IN THE MOST OBVIOUS PART OF MY HEAD.

I'm off to get some more Eggplant Parmesan hair dye...

Friday, December 4, 2009

smells like teen spirit

Over Thanksgiving Hubs and I spent a large majority of our time with family.

Scratch that.

Over Thanksgiving Hubs and I spent a large majority of our time drinking with family.

Which is fine.

Until I drink too much and start remembering things about myself that no one a) wants to hear or b) wants to picture.

So I share them with you.

The conversation that sparked this memory was my sister-in-law and I discussing some of our more unflattering fashion looks during our formative years. She recalled jelly shoes, I recalled bodysuits.

Yes, bodysuits.

Do you remember? They looked like this, but mine were uglier.


Back in 1996, I loved me some bodysuits. Laugh all you want, but Beyonce still wears them, so they must not be so bad. See?

I digress.

One Christmas (during I believe 8th grade), I received the ultimate gift. A brand new plum bodysuit with a pair of overalls.


Despite my un-dying love for the unitard bodysuit apparatus, I did have one problem when it came to wearing them in school. As a young, hormonal teenager, I had a...sweating problem.

Whatever, you did too, admit it.

Seriously, I had the glands of Michael Jordan after four quarters and a mile sprint. It just wasn't fair. I tried everything to get it under control. (And by everything I mean I Teen Spirit and Suave antiperspirant deodorant.)

Nothing seemed to work. I would bring stashes of deodorant and corral them in my locker and back pack, secretly re-applying nearly every chance I got. I was a sweaty girl to deodorant like a fat kid is to candy.


Making things worse were my raging hormones, which would kick into full gear whenever I was around a boy I was particularly fond of. (And in 8th grade, you're fond of nearly every guy who doesn't kick you in the ass when you pass him in the hall.) In other words, people, I sweat a lot. And sometimes it didn't smell so nice.

So...there I am, the first day of school after Christmas. I dress in my plum body suit, my overalls, and gigantic yellow contractor-style boots. (Like these.)


When I arrived at school that morning, I was convinced this was going to be the best day ever. Not only did I look rockin' in my overalls, but my body suit beneath it was nice and tight; the boys couldn't help but notice my rockin' curves.

(Of course, at the time I was unaware that tight clothes tend to keep the body nice and warm.)

And then it hit me.

I. Forgot. Deodorant.


Immediately my body went into panic. Which made me sweat. Then I remembered a test I had to take later that afternoon. Which made me sweat. Then I saw the boy of my dreams across the commons area.

Niagara Falls.

I vaguely remember anything about that day except for many frequent trips to the restroom to mop up the land of 10,000 lakes I had going on in my arm pits.

For last period started, I(gently)raced from my locker straight to my seat and planted myself there, determined not to breathe, worry, stress, get excited or look at any cute boys.

It seemed to be working, and the period went quickly. However, last period also happened to be my computer class.

So...lots of CPU's and printers, in the room, running all day long.
The room got hot. And hotter.

And so did I.

You know that feeling when you get out of the shower and put on a shirt too fast, and the wetness immediately seeps into your clothes? Take that, multiply it by a million, and add a pair of warmth preserving overalls.

I was a hot mess. Literally.

When the end of class approached, my classmates packed up early and crammed in next to the door, willing the bell to ring a few minutes early. I couldn't risk drawing attention to myself by staying in my seat, so I too packed up my bag and stood by the door.

Smooshed like sardines.

With only one minute left to go, I thought I had escaped the day unscathed.


Suddenly a boy in my class known for being rude, loud and generally unpleasant, proclaimed loudly, "What is that SMELL?" Immediately everyone began looking around, trying to locate the offensive odor. I too, awkwardly looked at my other classmates, praying to God that someone had let out a horrific fart.

Alas, I felt the Mean Boy's eyes land on me. In his defense, he was probably just wanting to stare at my boobs. Naturally though, the giant burgundy stains growing exponentinally by the second beneath my arms swiftly tore his attention from my boobies.

His eyebrows shot to the top of his pimply face as he loudly shouted, "OH MY GOD, it's KIM! Did you forget your-"

Apparently there is a God, because at that moment the final bell rang, and Mean Boy's desire to expose me to the whole class was washed away with thoughts of after-school Nintendo and freezer burnt pizza rolls.

(Thank heaven men are like dogs and can only concentrate on one thing at a time.)

To this day, though I no longer have a horrific sweating problem, but I still use the strongest deodorant money can buy. And then some.

And I'll never wear a bodysuit again.

(Unless I look as good as Beyonce.)